


in the quiet before we rush off to battle

by DevilishKurumi



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: M/M, Tantalus, Unrequited Love, poor sad boys who know their feelings too well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but I knew this was not the day you would finally come my way. but I waited all the same.<br/>(blank loves zidane. marcus loves blank. disc 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the quiet before we rush off to battle

            The warm summer rains come in wispy clouds, layering over the sky just enough to leave room for the sunset.  It’s deep red and gold, and Blank stares at it from the top of the clocktower, relishing in the way that the birds fly in from the shore to find their nests.  It’s a nice location that he’s found, and though he knows he’s needed in the castle ( _though you know **Zidane** needs you_ ), he’s hard pressed to leave.

            He’s been up here so many times in his life that it’s a wonder nobody ever seems to know where’s he’s gotten to.  Nobody ever looks for him here, and for that, he’s thankful.  It’s a secret in a place where he can’t ever keep a secret.

            “Blank.”

            He’d always known that he’d be found here, one day, but today seems almost too cruel.  He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Marcus is standing there, probably leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on his back.  He can practically feel where his gaze is, right between his shoulder blades, right where the stitches of his skin graft curve to meet his shoulder.

            “Sup, Marcus.”  He turns, hides his scowl at being found here, and settles his mouth on a neutral line.  “Crazy, isn’t it?  What’s happening, I mean.”

            “It’s been crazy for a while.”  He knows it has, ever since Zidane left ( _he didn’t even look back, and he’s never **going** to look back_ ), and he knows that it’s not about to let up.  “You know what the boss wants you to do, right?”

            “Yeah, I know.  Man the helm, head to distant shores, eliminate Kuja and be Zidane’s best man.  That sound about right?”

            He even tries to laugh as he says it, but it sounds wrong – he can’t decide if he’s being funny because it’s so _obvious_ that’s what’s going to happen, or if because he thinks it’s _ridiculous_ that it’s going to happen.  ( _It’s stupid, it’s wrong, you don’t want to hear it._ )

            Marcus approaches as though he’s going to get attacked, and Blank lets him.  He even lets him put a hand on his arm, lets him rub his bicep slowly, up and down.  “You could just tell him,” he says.  That’s where Blank draws the line; he pulls away, backs off and leans against the tower wall like it’s the only thing that will keep him standing.  Marcus approaches again and there’s nowhere to run, now.  “You could just tell him how you feel so that he knows.”

            “What good would that do?” he asks, turning his head away because he can’t stand to look at Marcus.  “What good would any of that do?”

            He feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong ( _and understanding, because you know he understands_ ), and he exhales harshly as he watches the birds coming home to roost.  “It’d help you stop tearing yourself up over it,” Marcus says.

            “Yeah, _right_.”

            “It’d help you stop tearing _me_ up over it.”

            He looks back to Marcus and sees all of that warm affection, sees all of the things Marcus wants to give him, and he thinks that it’s so _stupid_ of him that he’s not taking it.  It’s what he wants too, after all ( _but not the right person, never the right person, **you’re** never the right person_ ), and the fact that he’s resisting seems ludicrous.  Zidane hadn’t been the one to find the supersoft, hadn’t been the one to run through the forest hunting for him, hadn’t been the one to ( _want_ ) accept him.  Marcus had been all of those things, and would always be all of those things.  He had been the one to stay by his side, to not skip out after a drunken kiss or back off after joking flirtations got to be ( _too real_ ) too much.

            “Bro,” Marcus says, and that’s all he ever really needs to say.  Because _bro_ is enough for Blank to hear every last thought in the other’s head.  He can hear the clip in his tone, the way he wants to say more but he can’t find the words, the way he thinks _I’m too old for this_ and the way he thinks _you’re never going to get over him, are you, you’re never really going to stop wanting him_.

            “You deserve a lot better than this,” Blank says, and now he laughs a little more sincerely, if more bitterly.  “You deserve a whole lot better than this.”

            “Doesn’t mean I _want_ a lot better.”

            Blank has always had to make the first move – but today, Marcus is the first to kiss him, to grab his shoulders and pin him to the wall and invade his mouth.  And though he resists at first, still hung up on the ( _thought-memory, the feeling of tawny hair and a tail and alcohol on the breath_ ) idea of Zidane, he gives in so easily to the comfort provided.  He kisses back, more fiercely, thinking of it like a play, how Marcus and Cornelia meet in her chambers in _I Want to be Your Canary_.

            But Marcus’s hands are firm reminders of the truth of the matter, drawing down his sides, sending shudders up Blank’s spine.  The bell tolls above them and he knows he’s going to have to leave soon, but Marcus’s hand undoes his belt before he can say anything.

            “It’s going to be dangerous,” he hears Marcus murmur into his ear, and he shudders again for entirely different reasons.

            “I know.”

            “Might never see you again,” Marcus says, and he hears the crack in his voice on that sharp consonant.  Something he’s never heard before.

            Blank lifts his hands to Marcus’s face and holds it, fixing him with a look.  “I’m going to be fine, and I’m going to come back.”

            ( _Unless Zidane sees reason and comes back to you first, and then what will you do about Marcus?_ )

            The older man shudders and lowers his gaze, and despite what must be his only desire right now, he redoes Blank’s belt and keeps his hands there.  “Yeah,” he says, and he sounds like he’s read Blank’s mind.  “I know you will.”

            “I’ve gotta go,” Blank says.

            “I know, I know.”  He pulls away, but Blank grabs his arm and pulls him in for one more kiss, hot and heavy and full of promises he’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to keep.

            “You rescued me,” he murmurs, and Marcus lets out a breath that sounds as heavy as stone.  “I’m not gonna forget that.”

            “I wish you would,” he says.  “I don’t want that to be the reason...”

            “It isn’t.”  He doesn’t elaborate ( _because it **is** the reason, isn’t it?_ ), and Marcus doesn’t press him.  He just steps back and gestures to the ladder.

            “You’re gonna be late saving the world if you don’t hurry,” he says.  Blank forces a grin, and thinks about how warm and guiding and strong Marcus is as he climbs down the ladder.

            But as soon as he’s out in the misty drizzle, all he can think about is how blazing hot and sly Zidane is, and how he doesn’t do anything directly.  Marcus is an open book when it comes to him, Blank thinks.  Zidane’s more like an old wive’s tale, one never written down, one open to interpretation.

            He looks back and sees Marcus watching him from the clock tower, and he thinks how, if he gets in trouble out there on another continent, Marcus won’t hesitate to come rescue him again.  Blank thinks about that all the way to the castle, but when he sees Zidane on the dock he knows that any rescue attempt would be futile.

            ( _How can he rescue you from yourself?_ )


End file.
